


more than you bargained for (going down)

by susiecarter



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Communication Failure, Extra Treat, Hiding Medical Issues, M/M, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Sacrifice, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 20:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Nate sees the blow coming, and him seeing it is Jake seeing it—or maybe it's the other way around and Jake saw it first, but either way it's coming. They jerk sideways together, twisting Gipsy Avenger's torso at an angle so sharp that there's a split second where Nate's sure they're about to overbalance, and when they shout, "Fuck!" it's in stereo, even that impulse shared with perfect synchronicity in the drift.But they manage to slam one foot down and catch themselves, and the kaiju's tail flails around in an arc just short of landing an impact.





	more than you bargained for (going down)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wallflowering](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowering/gifts).



> Your freeforms included so many great options that I was utterly spoiled for choice, wallflowering—I hope you enjoy this mishmash of a few of my absolute favorites, and that you've had a wonderful Tropefest! :D ♥
> 
> I chose not to use archive warnings because this comes close enough to depicting a major character death that I don't want anyone seeking to avoid that to get blindsided. BUT no one dies, I swear, and the "Major Character Injury" does not stick, which I'm sure the rest of the tags make pretty obvious!

 

 

Nate sees the blow coming, and him seeing it is Jake seeing it—or maybe it's the other way around and Jake saw it first, but either way it's coming. They jerk sideways together, twisting Gipsy Avenger's torso at an angle so sharp that there's a split second where Nate's sure they're about to overbalance, and when they shout, "Fuck!" it's in stereo, even that impulse shared with perfect synchronicity in the drift.

But they manage to slam one foot down and catch themselves, and the kaiju's tail flails around in an arc just short of landing an impact.

Close one, though—this sucker is _big_. Not as big as the triple kaiju who'd been headed for Fuji, sure; but there's a lot of room between a nice Category Two or Three and this thing.

And normally that would make them more careful, rather than less. But in this particular case, when they duck down to swing a handful of cars at its head with the magnetic grapple, they get a decent view of the crumpled wreckage that used to be Reaper Domino. They hadn't gotten confirmation of a successful ejection by Horowitz and Khan before Gipsy Avenger's drop; and even ejection doesn't help any if a kaiju steps on you. They've got to distract this thing, lead it away if they can, and give the extraction team a chance to get Horowitz and Khan out of there.

Except the impact of the cars makes the kaiju's head swing in exactly the wrong direction. It catches sight of Reaper Domino again and bellows, as if just the reminder that its downed foe still exists is enough to piss it off.

"We've got to get around it," Nate says. "Get between it and Reaper, head it off," and he doesn't need to look to feel Jake nodding, already turning over possibilities. And naturally one of them is doing a flip in the air, maybe using their brand-new plasma cannon for a boost—and Nate grins, Jake's brazen amusement, at the same time that he snorts and shakes his head.

"Fine, fine," Jake says aloud, "we can be boring if you want."

"I don't care what you want to call it," Nate says, "if it works."

Which, in the end, it almost does. They hurl a couple more cars, bounce them off a skyscraper, but it's not enough to catch the kaiju's eye; whatever Reaper did to it must have really left an impression, because the kaiju just isn't satisfied. They have to grab it by the tail at a run, the impact and velocity enough to drag it sideways, away from Reaper Domino and into a handful of evacuated high-rises.

And then it's less pissed off at Reaper Domino, and a lot more pissed off at them.

For something that big, when it's motivated, it moves _fast_. It swings that tail again and knocks them halfway into one of the sinkholes it made fighting Reaper, and they push themselves up from the edge and right into a head-on blow from the one of the bony ridges on the kaiju's shoulders.

There's one breathless instant to see it coming, Gipsy's head on its way up and Nate's view suddenly nothing but kaiju. And then what feels like the whole world slams sideways, and Nate can't think or breathe or move for the pain of it.

Landing is almost as jarring as getting hit was, and the only reason Nate doesn't scream is because there's no air in his lungs anyway; it all got smashed out of him. His HUD's filling up with a hundred alerts about the damage, Gipsy's condition, the connpod—and distantly, somewhere beyond himself, he feels shaken loose a whole different way. The handshake, that's what it is. Dropped connection, the system doing what it can to route around the—jesus, the whole side of the connpod where it staved in, fuck. Nate steadies himself as best he can in his rig, and looks down, blinking furiously, suddenly hyperaware of how cold his face feels at the same time that sweat's dripping into his eyes.

And oh. Oh.

He swallows, bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, and reaches back behind himself, groping fingers finding a cable he can disconnect with a sharp jerk. Another couple alarms start up, and Gipsy's—Gipsy's moving, half-responsive, Jake turning toward him.

"Nate! Nate," Jake's saying—maybe has been for a minute already. Nate's not really sure.

"Fine," he rasps, "I'm fine," because it's his far side; Jake can't see it, and now that they won't be re-establishing a handshake, Jake isn't going to feel it, either.

He only gave himself a glance, but that was more than enough. His armor, his ribs, look like the connpod, busted sharply inward where a strut broke along the connpod's side and drove its way in; might not have been nearly as bad an impact except Nate's in the rig, which held him there as it struck him where otherwise he might've just pitched across the connpod from the hit. He can tell just from how bad it fucking hurts, the way he can already taste blood rising at the back of his throat, that it's serious. And if Jake realizes—

If Jake realizes, he's going to eject Nate again, and this time there's no Amara to bail him out. Jake can't pilot Gipsy alone, but he'd short out his own brain trying before he made Nate stay in here with half a dozen broken ribs, a punctured lung, and whatever the fuck else.

So, Nate thinks dimly, he better not realize.

"Nate, Jesus Christ, are you sure—"

"Yeah, yeah," Nate manages. "Sorry, broke the handshake. I think I lost a cable over here."

"Lost a bit more than that," Jake says, and Nate looks over sharply, startled—but Jake's looking at the displays, the damage to Gipsy. And yeah, the whole seating for Nate's half of the rig got warped; he's turned a little off-kilter with respect to Jake. No way can Jake see the worst of it from there.

He won't know a damn thing, not until it's over.

"We can still do this. Your controls out?"

"Only half of them," Nate makes himself say, deliberately light, and he doesn't look over again but he can hear the huff of breath Jake lets out, amused and steadying himself by it, already gearing up to give this his all.

"Then we got a shot," Jake says firmly, "and we have to take it. Nobody else covering us this time."

"I know," Nate tells him, and does look, can't stop himself: Jake's looking back, gaze steady, bright and determined and Pentecost-stubborn.

And if he's one of the last dozen things Nate's going to get to see before he dies, then Nate's going to call himself lucky and mean it.

"You and me, brother. I won't let you down."

And that makes Jake grin at him, fierce. "You never have," he says, low, and Nate swallows down blood and hopes like hell it's true.

Their connection to each other might be broken, but they're each still at least three-quarters connected to Gipsy; Nate's arm connection on the left side is fucked, too, and somewhere beyond the blazing agony of his ribs, he's guessing his shoulder is toast. But he's still got the right arm, right leg, and Jake's got a complete set on the left. Moving together, as close to synchronicity as they can manage, they drag Gipsy up and away from the edge of the sinkhole, and into something approximating a braced stance.

When the kaiju hit them, it didn't go down with them—barreled past into the base of a skyscraper instead, and it's still smashing through the wreckage, turning and opening its maw wide with a reverberating bellow, getting ready to come at them again.

They're not going to fight it. They can't, like this. But if they wait for the right moment, let it hit them and take the opportunity to drive the chain sword in as deep as it'll go, that might be all they need.

And they aren't drifting anymore, handshake way beyond lost, but the moment it happens—it feels exactly the way it's supposed to, Nate thinks. Him and Jake, perfectly matched, holding themselves in position with each other so well that the HUD's registering 92% synchrony even _without_ the drift. They lock eyes for a split second as the kaiju's coming at them, ground shaking underneath them, and everything else falls away: Nate's not thinking about anything, not Reaper or Gipsy or even the wreck of his own torso. He's an extension of Jake, or Jake of him, and it suddenly feels utterly impossible that they _wouldn't_ move at the exact same moment, chain sword lighting up in a blaze, driving it into the kaiju just as it slams into them full-on.

Gipsy tumbles sideways, of course, but that's okay. Nate saw it, the blade slicing in deep, and the kaiju's scream of agony is deafening even once they're falling, vision flickering. It's done.

It's done, and that means Nate can let go.

He might actually black out for a second, still suspended in what's left of his rig but sagging in it, Jake shouting somewhere that sounds incredibly far away. They come down pretty hard, but it doesn't hurt any worse than existing does, right now; and they aren't going to get up again, but judging by the feedback the HUD's picking up from externals, neither is that kaiju.

Breathing is so much more effort than it's worth. Nate hangs there half-crumpled and for some reason can't stop gasping, the taste of blood getting stronger, and then it's—it's in his throat, somehow, and he has to cough. Which doesn't just hurt like fuck, but fills his mouth with it, so he has to spit it out or else choke on it.

"Nate? Nate, what the fuck—are you—"

He doesn't want to cough again, he really doesn't, but he can feel his chest tightening up anyway, and then it's too late. He tries to settle for just clearing his throat, swallowing everything down, but it turns into coughing again anyway, wet and rattling.

He doesn't realize all that noise in the background was Jake getting himself unhooked until there are hands on him—he makes a thready helpless sound when one of them lands not even on his side, but his arm, and fuck, he totally broke that, too. Fuck, oh, fuck.

"The hell did you—jesus, what happened? Are you—god, what _is_ that? Holy shit, is that your _rib_? Nate—"

Sorry, Nate tries to say, except he can't because he's busy coughing out all his air. Lung, he tries next, but he just—fuck, he can't fucking breathe. Long enough now that his own blood is really starting to fill him up, if he had to guess, and without any way to drain it out, reinflate his lung or whatever, he's—he's probably going to drown in it.

What a stupid way to die.

"Yeah, 'stupid' is about the least of what I feel like calling you right now," Jake's muttering sharply, and oh, wow, at least one of those words actually made it out whole. Neat.

Nate drops out a little then, his hindbrain desperate for him to catch his breath even though most of him's pretty aware it's a lost cause, and every heave of his chest feels like it's tearing him open. He doesn't want to be here for it, wants to just pass the hell out and go, except he can't quite.

"—no, no, _no_ , don't you fucking dare. Nate— _Nate_ , you bastard, don't even think about it—"

"Got the job done," Nate rattles out, feeling his lips stick a little, tacky with blood.

"Fuck the goddamn job! Jesus, why didn't you tell me? I was—I could've—"

"Done it yourself?" Nate's face has gone kind of strange and cold, and he's not sure what it's doing, but he hopes it's managing to express some fraction of his skepticism. "R'member th' last two times y'tried, man. Don't—" and he has to stop, gag a little, gasp and heave and shake in Jake's arms, before he can keep going. "—don't g've me that crap—"

God, he just cannot keep his eyes open anymore.

"—no, Nate. _Nate_ —"

But it's okay, he reminds himself. The kaiju's down. Jake's all right. That's what matters. They'll find somebody else in no time.

Burke, maybe.

"Nate, goddamn it," and the hands are on his face now, cradling; so warm, compared to his cheeks, and it feels fucking amazing. Jake, Nate thinks, even though he can't say it anymore, and half wishes they were drifting—not so Jake had to feel this or anything, just so Jake would be able to hear him. Just so Jake would know—

The pressure on his forehead, his cheek, surprises him. And then his mouth, once and then again. Jake's _kissing_ him, and what Nate finds himself dimly bewildered by, of all things, is that his lips must be slack and sour and bloody, and it's not slowing Jake down any. He hangs there in the dark of himself, suspended, wondering and amazed, that last sweet sensation following him down as he goes under—

 

 

 

—and they're dropped out of the sim hard, gasping in stereo. Nate jerks reflexively free of the sim helmet as the sim chamber lights come up around them, and fuck. Oh, fuck.

Jesus. He remembers it all now: it had sounded like classic Jake Pentecost going in, this brand-new sim program about to get rolled out and Jake wanting to take a test drive in the middle of the night. Because why sleep when you could be doing something you definitely weren't supposed to be doing instead?

And Nate had let himself be talked into it, because—hell, he hadn't been asleep either, and he'd been curious. It was supposed to be a whole new level of illusion, that was the point. Because the problem with regular sims, cited over and over again in PPDC analysis going back through the whole war, was that knowing it was a sim, on some level, always let you off the hook. You could log ten thousand hours, textbook-perfect, record-breaking marks, and the brass still couldn't be sure how you'd react to combat until they dropped you into the middle of it in a billion-dollar machine.

Which is only becoming more important now that this whole plan to actually go up against the Precursors is starting to take shape. Because whatever the risk-reward calculation is on that shit on Earth, the "risk" side really starts to balloon when you're talking about sending people through a rift in space-time to who the fuck knows where.

So the geeks had gotten their heads together, and figured out how to use some trick of neurology to their advantage. The technical side's way beyond Nate, but he'd gotten the gist over the course of a couple progress briefings: whatever your brain does to itself to let you dream, turning off everything that might make you say, "Wait, where did that clown come from?" or "Why am I in the middle of a fight with a kaiju when the last thing I remember is getting in the sim chamber with some jackass?"—they could do that, and turn it up to eleven.

Which, as Jake had put it, sounded fucking awesome, and Nate had to admit he'd been curious.

But that hadn't been all. Because besides any of that, Nate thinks, swallowing hard, he'd—he'd just wanted to. Which was a little bit practical, yeah, at least if you wanted to think of it that way. He and Jake have fallen halfway back into place with each other, coasting on old habits, except it's been ten years and they're not quite the same people they were the first time around. The more time they spend together, the better off they'll be, adjusting the half-faded pictures they have in their heads until they actually look like the guy standing there today, and not the angry kids they each used to be.

Except mostly it wasn't about practicality at all. Mostly he just fucking wanted to, because after the ten worst years of his life, he's finally got Jake back. He's got Jake back, and this time it might even stick. Fuck sleep; he doesn't want to give up one single goddamn second of this, not if he could be spending it with Jake instead of without.

So he'd said yes, and they'd climbed in here and hooked themselves in and turned it on. And that was—that wasn't anything like what he'd been expecting. Shit.

He sucks in a deep slow breath, and he knows none of that actually happened but he's still a little surprised when he can do it—when it doesn't hurt. He looks down his torso, whole and normal, bones all where they're supposed to be. He's still wearing his fucking t-shirt, clean and white, no blood anywhere.

He touches it anyway, because he can't stop himself. And then he risks a glance over at Jake.

Who's just standing there, staring into the middle distance, rubbing a hand over his mouth. And the last thing Nate should be doing right now is looking at Jake's fucking mouth, but by the time he tears his eyes away, Jake's already caught him, turning, gaze heavy and steady and totally unbearable.

Shit. Oh, shit.

"Nate, man—"

And Nate flinches a little, briefly but sharply overpowered by exactly how much _look, I'm sorry about the—um, at the end there, but it wasn't real, right?_ is the last thing he can stand to hear right now. "It's fine," he says before Jake can get any further, quick and too loud in his own ears. "It's fine. You thought I was dying, shit happens. Don't worry about it." He makes himself relax a little, tries to ease up and dial back enough to say what ought to be a half-assed joke the way half-assed jokes should get said: "If you think I wouldn't seize the day and lay one on you if I had the chance, then you're kidding yourself."

He can feel himself flush a little, letting even that much truth trip off his tongue. But he _knows_ Jake. Getting shy or serious sets all Jake's combat alerts going at once, always has. If Nate's going to have a chance in hell at getting out of this without fucking everything up, leaning into it is the only way to go.

And, sure enough, Jake barks out a quick sharp laugh, surprised, and then grins wide. "Well, of course you would," he says, more comfortably. "Who'd pass up the chance to get themselves a piece of—" and he gestures with joking intensity to his own face, his chest, "all this?"

"Exactly," Nate agrees, making his tone flat and a little wry. Straight man—ha—to Jake's class clown, the oldest and most comfortable roles either of them has ever worn.

And that should do it, he's pretty sure. He just needs to say something else vague about what a—a hell of a trip that was, huh? Casual. Or another joke, that it's way past both their bedtimes, as he crosses the room with a shake of his head, and then he'll be through the door and Jake won't be able to see him anymore, so it won't matter what he does or how he feels—

"Hey," Jake says, and it only takes a stride for him to get close enough to wrap his hand around Nate's wrist; nothing Nate can dodge, and dodging wouldn't help when he's trying to act normal anyway. "Hey, wait. Don't—don't do that, man, don't blow me off."

Nate gives him a look, like he can't imagine what would have made Jake think that.

"Yeah, no," Jake says, "sorry, can't fool me. I know that face. That's your 'I see no reason to ever speak of this again, Ranger Pentecost' face. That face can fuck right off your head, thanks."

Nate raises his eyebrows, and shit, he knows he should try to keep his cool, but his heart is still hammering; Jake's hand on his arm, Jake looking at him like this with everything Nate tries not to let him see so close to the surface, is making his chest tighten up, his jaw tight with something he'd rather not call panic.

In some ways it was easier when they were cadets, to—to feel something about Jake and not name it, to pretend it didn't matter. But now they're partners again, they drift all the time. Jake didn't say anything about it in Sydney, though Nate's heart had been in his throat waiting for it. And he didn't say anything about it in Severnaya Zemlya; he didn't say anything about it after Tokyo.

Which had been what had finally made Nate realize he was worrying about the wrong thing. As if Jake would bring it up—as if Jake ever fucking talked about anything, when he could ignore it or bury it or just plain refuse to acknowledge it instead. Jake didn't talk about jack shit if he could help it. He _did_ things, did them and didn't look back, just kept rolling like none of it touched him. Of course Jake hadn't said anything; and he'd keep on not saying anything, as long as Nate was careful and made it easy for him.

No reason that should change now, Nate reminds himself, and tilts his head a little. "What, _you_ want to have a heart-to-heart about this? Seriously?"

He doesn't mean for it to bite, exactly. It's supposed to be disbelieving, amused, so Jake'll see the whole idea's nonsensical and let Nate get the fuck out of here.

But somehow his best efforts can't quite mask the edge of bitterness in it. Trying to make Jake talk when Jake didn't want to is exactly what screwed Nate ten years ago, exactly what started the fight that sent Jake out of the cadets' barracks and straight into that Mark IV jaeger by himself. And Nate learned his goddamn lesson. He didn't push Jake in the kitchen; he just made his point and then let it rest. He didn't push Jake after Mako; he had to settle for talking to the cadets where Jake could hear instead, and he did, and that's fine. He's figured out how not to ask Jake for more than Jake's willing to give him, and he's figured out how to be okay with it.

And now, _now_ , this one goddamn time he's relying on Jake to not want to pick apart what just happened, Jake's all for playing ball? Fuck that.

But Jake doesn't flinch from it. "Yeah, seriously," he says evenly. "You want me to say I don't know what the fuck to say? Okay, I don't know what the fuck to say. I don't do this, yeah? I don't know how. We're both pretty well aware of that. But I'm trying this new thing where when stuff is important to me, I don't let it slide. Even if that _does_ mean talking about it."

Jake makes a face when he says "talking", exaggerated horror, a man who's just been confronted with the movie monster of his childhood nightmares, and Nate can't help but huff half a laugh through his nose.

He's rewarded with the bright flash of Jake's smile; and then the smile falls away, and Jake's grip on his arm tightens just a little, and Jake clears his throat and adds more quietly, "I walked away from you once already because I didn't know what the fuck to say, and I spent ten years regretting it. I can be kind of stupid, Nate, but I'm not stupid enough to do that to myself twice."

Nate stares at him. He's changed the way he acts around Jake because of that fight, yeah, because the lingering ache of losing Jake hasn't ever really left him. But he didn't—he didn't know Jake had been trying to do the same thing for him.

"And the thing is," Jake's saying, slow, like he's picking each word as carefully as he can, "that was real. Right? I mean, as good as. We both believed it, while we were in there. That's the whole point of the sim. Which means you'd let something fuck you up that bad and not tell me about it until it was too late. You—" He stops short, eyes snapping to Nate's. "You lost a cable," he repeats.

"Jake—"

"You _lost a cable_ , my exquisitely-shaped ass," Jake snaps. "You knew there was no way you could hide that from me if we were drifting, because I'd know for damn sure it wasn't me. Jesus Christ, Nate, what the hell is wrong with you? Why would you—if you'd just told me, we could've—"

 _But it wasn't real_ , Nate should say. _It was just a sim. It doesn't matter._ Jake's stubborn, Jake's always been stubborn, and arguing with him about this is only going to make him stick to his guns that much harder. That's how it's always been, and Nate knows it.

Which doesn't explain at all why what he actually hears himself shout is, "We could've what, Jake? Huh? You were _right_ in there, man. What you said—you were right. There wasn't anybody else. It was us, just us, and you needed me. That sim did exactly what it was supposed to, okay? Because I _would_ rather die having your back than live and let you down." He stops and bites his lip, rubs his free hand across his face, eyes prickling sharp and he can't make them stop. "I'd do a hell of a lot worse than drown in my own blood if it meant I could be sure that you—" and shit, that's too much; his voice is cracking, hoarse and obvious, and he needed to shut the fuck up about fifteen seconds ago—

"Holy shit," Jake says, hushed.

Nate doesn't look at him, can't, but Jake doesn't seem to mind: he's moved again, closer instead of further away, grasp gentling around Nate's one arm and—and his other hand comes up, tentative, to find Nate's shoulder, the one that was a busted mess in the sim.

"That was you, too?"

Jesus, Nate doesn't have time for this, whatever the fuck it is Jake's talking about now. "Jake," he says roughly, and makes a half-hearted attempt to pull free, back up a step, except Jake doesn't let him go.

"Man, when we drifted again—I thought there was no way you weren't going to notice. I thought you'd know for sure, right away, and I had no idea what you were going to think. And then you just didn't say anything," and Jake's voice has gone a little higher now, remembered bewilderment. "You didn't say anything, you didn't even seem surprised. But you weren't pissed off, either, and so I figured that meant we were okay, at least if I kept my mouth shut."

And Nate just can't help but glance up then, because that sounds almost like—

"But you thought it was you, huh?" Jake murmurs, and he's even closer now; they take a half-step, another, together as he crowds Nate gently up against the wall of the sim chamber. "Feeling all that stuff, tied up in knots over it, just waiting to get kicked in the head for it. You thought that was you."

Nate swallows hard, feeling distant heat creeping up his throat. Because yeah, he had. He had, and in the drift, joined like that, feeling _everything_ like it's you, all that stuff had been perfectly familiar to him; all that stuff had felt like his, and he hadn't had any reason to think any of it had been coming from Jake instead. When he wasn't drifting with Jake, he was so sick in love it ached, and when he drifted with Jake, he was so sick in love it ached. Pretty obvious common factor there. It had been all he could do to hope Jake wouldn't mind too much, that it wouldn't bother Jake so badly they couldn't keep drifting. He couldn't—there hadn't been any reason to think it was anything other than—

"You weren't the only person in that sim, Nate," Jake says quietly. "I thought it was real, too. And it turns out there's no way I could stand it if I let you go again, not without—without—" He curses under his breath, sudden and sharp, and shakes his head. "Okay, so I'm still not great at talking," he says finally, mouth slanting, and before Nate can even get it together enough to make fun of him for it, they're kissing.

Kissing again, technically. But for—for real this time, Nate thinks dimly; and he gasps against Jake's mouth, hooks an arm around Jake's shoulders, because if Jake's not letting go, he sure as hell isn't planning to, either.

 

 


End file.
